Duck Lake little dark age

He had frightened the ducks by accident and had driven them into the center of the lake.

The raucous birds bobbed on the gray water like little dark skiffs, watching him and tattling on him in their noisy, honking language. He watched them back, tongue lolling, sides heaving. His breath floated like a mist around his face. He'd tried to get close enough to catch one, but he was not an ambush predator. And he was too hungry to be patient and careful.

Skífa sighed heavily and licked his nose. He glanced at the sky, which was downy gray and puffy with clouds. The sun was behind them, somewhere. A nebulous white orb barely visible through the cloud cover. Over the dark, wet fragrance of the lake, there was the smell of coming snow or sleet, and the wind was preternaturally calm as if holding its breath, waiting for the weather to turn. Skífa looked at the ducks again.

He smirked, thinking if he was that mountain lion he'd met the other day he probably could have caught one by now. Maybe even two. He was surprised, actually, that she hadn't come hunting him yet - maybe she was being honest when she said she didn't hunt wolves.

"Ghha." Skífa kicked the murky ice-water and waded out from the shallows. He shook himself off, even though it was only his legs that were wet, and started trotting around toward the opposite side of the lake. Maybe he'd have better luck over there.